


Hell's Calling

by Janthony (Lumiel_lightbringer)



Series: Wake Me Up [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abuse, Additional Warnings Apply, Angels, Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Archangels, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Brainwashing, Burns, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cutting, Demons, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Drug-Induced Sex, Drugged Sex, Drugs, Electroconvulsive Therapy, Electrocution, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fallen Angels, Fire, Gang Rape, Gang Violence, Gen, Gore, Groping, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt Crowley, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, Kidnapping, M/M, Major Character Injury, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Past Abuse, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Past Brainwashing, Past Drug Addiction, Past Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture, Past Violence, Physical Abuse, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Esteem, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Slaves, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture, Touching, Violence, Whipping, Withdrawal, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-10-25 23:03:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20732165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumiel_lightbringer/pseuds/Janthony
Summary: !TRIGGER WARNING!An angry Hell kidnaps an unsuspecting Crowley to teach him not to meddle in problems above him. Aziraphale has to deal with the obnoxious babysitting from the one and only Archangel Fucking Gabriel. With enough on his plate, the angel doesn't know Crowley is gone until it's too late, and the demon he knew, and loved, is lost within his own mind.NOTE: The full recovery fic will be posted separately.!TRIGGER WARNING!This story includes various forms of torture including, but probably not limited to: Rape, Electrocution, ECT, Brainwashing, Drug Abuse, and Verbal and Physical Abuse.DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THE ABOVE MAY TRIGGER YOU.





	1. Unsuspecting Demon

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd (All my friends live in America I'm so fucking LONELY-) and my C key isn't working properly so apologizes in advance for any misspellings, or grammatical errors or an overall lack of needed C's.
> 
> Enjoy?

~

The air is brisk this morning, though not unpleasantly so. Nothing seems unpleasant, anymore, really, seeing as the Earth was almost shattered among the cosmos. Crowley would count any weather following that wretched day as a win.

Even as tiny droplets of cool rain begin to pitter-patter along the sidewalk he is sauntering down, or as they scatter about on his shades and dampen his hair, he doesn't mind. 

The way to Aziraphale's restored bookshop is a long one, at least from his flat - which he refuses to get rid of, no matter what the angel says - so, seeing as he will being going past it anyway, decides to buy Aziraphale one of those chocolate-glazed croissants he enjoys at a rather popular bakery in town.

If he had it his way, he wouldn't even be walking in the first place. But, with Hell and Heaven keeping a close eye on them - even after their little trick - Aziraphale _insisted_ he kept the easily-recognizable, not to mention, extremely conspicuous, Bentley away from his bookshop until further notice. Crowley, of course, could never say no to Aziraphale's worries, especially when, though he hates to admit it, they make perfect sense.

The light pings green, rather coincidentally, right as the demon reaches the crosswalk. He takes a step into the road, only to feel a firm hand wrap around his bicep, stopping him in his tracks.

"Crawly." The voice is unmistakable.

"Hastur." His tone is barely a whisper, though frightened, would not be how anyone who heard would describe it as. Bored, maybe. Angry, likely. Enraged, most likely.

"Hell's calling." He responds. If Crowley turned around, he would see the delighted, devilish grin plastered on the Fallen's face. He doesn't. He knows it will be there nonetheless.

At this point, Crowley notices that the world around them has frozen. Not many demons have enough power to do such a thing. Then again, it _is_ a more angelic power, and he and Hastur both have grace-tainted demoniac not-souls. But the fact that Hastur has the same level of power as Crowley - who was, how should he put it... A quite powerful angel when upstairs, would be the vaguest way to explain -, does put the latter down a few pegs.

"Hell always calls." He keeps the same tone, though _enraged_ would not longer fit.

Hastur chuckles, a sound that has never before sounded as wicked as it does now. "And you never answer."

A heavy hand grabs the back of Crowley's head, forcing itself inside and latching onto whatever conscience it can find. With the power of an angel, one could tear a soul- or any supernatural entity's equivalent of one- out with as little as a pinch.

The world darkens around Crowley, and he feels a searing pain attack him from all sides.

A low laugh fills Crowley's ears before nothingness takes over.


	2. A House-Call from Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been editing this for 2 days but I still can't decide whether or not it's good enough so here it is, I guess. Feel free to point out any mistakes. Hell knows I'm too dyslexic to see any more.

~

**13:17**

Aziraphale peers down from the clock once more and paces the length of the room. Why hasn't Crowley arrived yet? Yes, the demon is known to be late on several occasions- in fact, more often than not, he would be, at the very least, a minute or two late.

But an hour and two minutes was a new record, and Aziraphale tries desperately to calm his fraying nerves.

"It's fine, he's fine." He says aloud, wringing his hands nervously, "He's probably just taking a long time because I said no to him driving, that's all!" He insists to himself. Before he can walk another line and, undoubtedly, cause a groove to begin to appear in his wake, the bell above the front door chimes and Aziraphale turns only to get a big heaping pile of disappointment at his, quite literal, doorstep.

"Oh. Gabriel. I wasn't expecting to see you here, today." Aziraphale feigns a smile and gives him what could be, vaguely, interpreted as a small wave.

Gabriel peers around the shop before his violet eyes settle on Aziraphale's albeit scared, blue ones. "And, pray tell, who _were_ you expecting?" He asks, his gaze hard and judgmental.

"Oh, no one, in particular, really, just- uhm, well, you know... Customers?" He tries, not sounding confident, whatsoever, in his own voice.

The archangel gives him a slight nod before stepping completely into the shop. The sign flips outside to say _Open_, and Aziraphale's cheeks burn.

"So... Uhm... Whats this all... About?" Aziraphale tries, taking multiple short steps back.

Gabriel, overcompensating as always, closes the newly opened space in three long strides. "Heaven wanted to check up."

"Oh. Well. I'm fine, thank y-" 

Gabriel waves a hand and cuts him off, shaking his head, "Yeah. Great. Don't care."

Aziraphale opens his mouth then closes it again. He apprehensively tenses up before attempting another question, "So uhm... Why-"

The archangel rolls his eyes before he can even finish, giving him a disapproving glare as he interrupts once more, "You are still supposed to be performing you Angelic Duties, Aziraphale." Gabriel explains as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, "And ever since your title fire show," He points at Aziraphale's mouth and draws a circle in the air, "I haven't been allowed to check in on you from Above."

"Oh." Is all Aziraphale can squeak out [1].

"Be honest with me, Aziraphale." Gabriel's voice lowers and he takes a few careful steps before turning completely to have his chest facing Aziraphale's back. He leans down and whispers into his ear, "Was sending you to Earth a mistake?"

The younger angel swallows and slowly shakes his head.

"I want an answer." He says, a hand landing on his shoulder to stop him from moving. "I want to hear your voice, Aziraphale."

"No. It... It wasn't a mistake."

"You don't sound so sure of yourself, there..." He hums, turning his head to his piercing gaze is perfectly in Aziraphale's peripheral vision.

"It wasn't a mistake." He tries again, voice still shaking but louder, now.

"What wasn't?"

Aziraphale bites down the internal urge to leap out of his corporeal body and strangle Gabriel with his own scarf. "Sending me to Earth... Wasn't a mistake."

He tries, but, of course, Gabriel still isn't pleased.

"Tsk... Aziraphale, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were _still_ a _dumb. Little. Fledgling._"

Aziraphale's fists tighten and his jaw sets. A sly grin finds its way onto Gabriel smug face. "Now, let's try that again, shall we? You were in my Garrison, you know what I want."

He nods before straightening his back, his wings flaring out so they are spread just enough, his head tilted up, but not too far up. His eyes stare forward, but not into the plane of nothingness. His pupils remain fixed on a point directly in front of him. His fingers tremble and he flexes them in a fist before letting go again.

"Sending me to Earth... was not a mistake." He repeats, voice steadier than before, loud but not too, but still, not enough.

"_Sir_." Gabriel adds, pointing at him as he circles around him. Pacing, glaring, eyeing, judging. 

"Sending me to Earth was not a mistake, _Sir_." A hint of sarcasm slips through at the last word and in an instant, Gabriel's hand has found its way to Aziraphale's throat.

"What do I say about sarcasm?" He asks, his voice more akin to that of a snake - the thought has Aziraphale mentally slapping himself, Crowley would _despise_ being compared to Gabriel.

"Not for the young and incompetent..." He mumbles.

"What was that?"

"Sarcasm is not for the young and incompetent." He says, again, but louder. His eyes meet Gabriel's for a split second before looking away.

"I don't think you've spent nearly enough time in training than you should have, Aziraphale." He finally says, hand loosening but not leaving his throat. "You're still as stupid and bland as you were when I assigned you a Principality. I think it's time you return home for some... Hm, let's say _review__ing_. How's that sound?" His eyes glint with an evil an angel should never even have access to.

"Yes, Sir..." He murmurs, eyes downcast again.

Gabriel lets go and adjusts his jacket. "You're lucky you're still young, Aziraphale." He says, softly, "A few more millennia and you'd be smote on the spot."

When he gets no answer, though Aziraphale didn't really think he _needed_ one, a red mark appears on the younger's cheek. "I said, _you're lucky_, Aziraphale."

"Tha-ank yo-ou, ahem, Sir." He manages out, choking on the oxygen he doesn't really need.

Gabriel's smug smile reappears as he grabs Aziraphale by the shoulder.

A bright light fills the bookshop, illuminating every nook and cranny with a blinding white.

The loud, high-pitch shriek rings through the ears of all in London.

When the light dims, and the shrill noise vacates, the shop is empty.

* * *

[1] If he wasn't reeling from the fact that Gabriel basically just told him his monthly check-ins are going to be more frequent, he would have had time to laugh at the though of Gabriel not being allowed to do something, or to question what he meant by 'fire show'. What did his _mouth_ have to do with anything


	3. All the Time in the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here's another update. Writing Crowley is much easier for me than Aziraphale, so I think this one came out better than the last chapter.

~

Time passes differently in Hell than on Earth or even in Heaven.

On Earth there is always a defined Time, date, location. All of it is very exact. Crowley likes that about Earth. Even though time-zones are a thing, the minutes are always the same. There will forever be an exact second and minute of Time that Crowley can go off of.

Maybe it's his time in Heaven that made him prefer the exactness of it, or maybe it was his time in Hell. He doesn't really know. Either way, Earthly Time is way better than Heavenly or Hellish counterparts.

For example, Heaven does have a set time, but it is different from Hell's, and Earth's.

Time passes much slower in Heaven. Days are hours, hours are minutes, minutes are seconds. So on and so forth. Some prefer this. Many, actually, prefer this. The aging process, or, at least, the physical one, is slowed down in Heaven.

Crowley was never a fan of this. He always questioned why Heaven and Earth could never agree on one version of Time.

He was always punished for asking.

Meanwhile, Hell's version of Time was, in fact, the complete opposite of Heaven's. Much like everything about the two planes of existence, they prefer to keep even something as vital as Time itself utterly different.

Time passes quicker, in Hell. Much quicker.

Days are not weeks, they are months. Months are not years, they are decades.

But the aging process stops in Hell, all together. No one gets older nor do they get younger.

But none of this means it _feels_ any different, in any of the planes. No, Time always _feels_ the same.

If one were to count the seconds, they would be able to find minutes and hours rather easily.

One could count every day, week, month, and year to find the exact amount of Hellish Time had passed. But when they return to Earth, far less Time would have passed.

Hell did this for two reasons: Because they wanted to feel special since Heaven got its own Time System, and because they wanted to hold onto Souls - or other versions of the Being of a creature - for longer.

They need Time to break down each individual being. They need demons to be made and released into positions quickly and that involves bending the Universe a bit. Quite literally.

So what could have been a few minutes in Hell for Crowley, was most likely already weeks topside.

Needless to say, Crowley always hates his visits Home.

When Crowley comes to, the first thing he notices is the rough, splintering wood below him. His entire being aches, and the next thing he realises is that he no longer has a corporeal body. Hastur must have pulled him out of it.

The simple _thought_ of someone like _Hastur_ having that kind of power sends shivers up and down the demon's spine [1].

Crowley lets out a pained gasp as he pulls himself up into what could vaguely resemble a sitting position, if he had an actual body.

The rotten floorboards he sits on are just that, rotten and broken in places, revealing the reddish brown soil-like substance underneath. Fungi and mold spread across the wood and up the walls.

Deep red stains coat the surprisingly sturdy walls. That and the black splatters reaching up to the cave-like ceiling mark the room.

None of this comes as a shock to Crowley. Hell always had a thing for over emphasising their _evilness_. To Crowley, it's just a waste of time. (If it takes _this __much_ atmosphere to get a fright from any soul, they aren't torturing right, he thinks.)

Much like the rest of Hell, the room is rather cramped. Just barely big enough for one to stand up and spread their wings.

But the smell, oh, Satan, the _smell_. Of all the wicked things Hell did, for all their shows and contraptions, the _stench _of the place was enough to drive anyone to never want to feel the sense ever again.

The hot aroma of rotting, boiling flesh. The heavy waft of death and decay coming from every angle.

It was overpowering, overwhelming.

The worst thing Hell could ever come up with was simply the odour of the place.

Crowley could vouch for that any day.

Even without a defined _nose_, per say, he still _has_ his senses. Which includes smelling - and almost _tasting_ \- the horrid stench, feeling the sticky, prickling floorboards, seeing the peeling walls, hearing the wails of not-so-innocent souls being tortured into submission.

The door - that hadn't been there before - in front of Crowley opens with a loud thud.

Three figures stand in the doorway. The shortest enters first. Crowley lets out a loud whine when Beelzebub stands a few feet away. What can only be Hastur and someone else flank zir. The door shuts and vanishes.

"Well. To what do I owe the pleasure, my Lord?" Crowley asks, a cheeky grin on his not-face.

Beelzebub smirks back. This can't be good. Crowley's face drops, but he keeps up an albeit small grin. "Your attitude will be ssuch a pleasssure to break." Ze whispers, leaning down so Beelzebub is staring Crowley into his not-eyes.

He doesn't respond, simply glaring and knowing that ze can see it past his smokey, black aura.

"Whose dick did Hastur have to suck to get an upgrade?" He spits out, turning from the Hell Lord to look at the silhouette he could recognize countries away.

Beelzebub seems pleased by his sarcasm, another bad sign, if the bark of laughter ze lets out is anything to go by. "Hasstur won hiss 'upgrade'." Ze hisses out, waving zir right hand up and a fourth body appears.

This one collapses down in front of Crowley, who scoots back at the sight. "Israfil-" He drops his guard for a split second, the sight of his fr- his ex-friend from Heaven lying, barely alive, at his not-feet.

"What the Hell-" He looks up at Beelzebub only to earn a smug smirk.

"We know what you and your boyfriend did to trick uss, Crawly." Ze takes a step closer, snapping sir fingers to send the body back to wherever he was undoubtedly being held captive. "Now we're going to remind you exxxactly _what._ _You. Are._" Ze leans down in front of Crowley's not-face and whispers, "You're a demon, Crawly. You've Fallen and no on, nothing can sssave you. Usss demons don't get forgivenessss. We don't get redemption. Angelsss and Humansss all join usss, but we don't join them. You're alwaysss going to be the rotten little Lesser Demon you became. It'sss time you exxcept that."

"You didn't have to take Israfil." His voice is low and daring. By now, Crowley knows he has nothing to lose. Whatever is going to happen to him will happen no matter how he acts. Might as well hold onto at least _some_ of his pride while he still has it.

"No, we didn't." Ze nods, turning around and heading towards where the door was. "But Hasstur knew you had an exx. And he ssupplied well."

Crowley flinches, but remains silent, glowering at the Lord as ze waves a hand to recreate the metal door. "You know Asmodeus, yes?" Ze asks, turning just enough that he can see the smug grin on zir rotting face.

Hastur follows zir out of the room, leaving him with the Prince of Hell.

"Asmodeus..." Crowley drawls, tilting his head so he can get a better look at his face as he enters his sight. "Demon of Lust... What're you going to do to me - Tempt me into Lust? Because your little prisoner Israfil can vou-"

He cuts him off with a strong hand on his not-chin, forcing him to look up. "You only speak when spoken to."

Crowley swallows thickly and nods the best he can.

The hand lets go and Crowley's not-head lolls back.

"Let's have some fun then, shall we?" Asmodeus eyes glint and his sharp fangs shine in the red glow of the room. "We have all the Time in the world."

* * *

[1] Dukes of Hell shouldn't have the same amount of power as a Prince or King. For Hastur to have enough to rip him from his corporation, Crowley can only guess what he did to get a boost like that. He didn't even know that was _possible_ until now!


	4. Mercy at Heaven's Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reluctant to release this chapter since I'm not entirely sure how people will feel on my take on the Archangels but... I hope you enjoy it anyway. I felt like adding in at least a little bit of background on what I was going for in this story so everyone understands how the dynamic changed between them when Lucifer and Raphael Fell.

~

Humanity got many things wrong about religion.

They all got bits and pieces right, which is impressive enough as it is, considering they all were pissing in the wind with blatant guesses and hopeless faith.

For one thing, God is neither male nor female. They are an androgynous entity that neither resides on Earth or in Heaven. God lives outside of our Universe. Because our Universe is not the only one.

There are many, along with many timelines, that exist out there. And God sets them all up, but orchestrates none.

Another thing Humanity got wrong was Angels. Yes, they exist, and yes, they are beings of light that live and control Heaven. But the whole 'Loving and Peaceful Beings' bit was all wrong.

God's first mistake when making life was creating Angels to be soldiers.

God's second mistake when making life was giving enough of those soldiers free will to break Heaven.

The Archangels were made first.

Michael is the firstborn. The Warrior. The Great Commander. A powerful protector of Heaven and the Angels. Michael was born to lead Heaven when God was done creating, and left for another creation to begin.

And they did a rather good job. That is, until God left.

But more on that, later.

The next Archangel made was Lucifer. Or, as they were known Before as, Lumiel. The Light of God. The Great Strategist - although they later became known as the Great Deceiver. Lumiel was made to be Michael's second in command. To stand at their side in both battle and rule.

That didn't work, though.

The third and fourth Archangels were Raphael and Gabriel.

Raphael was the Healer of the - back then - nine. They were the Angel many Humans based the others off of. The kind, careful, loving sibling. That didn't last.

Gabriel, the fourth Archangel, is the Messenger. Originally, he would be given instruction from God Themself. That, also, didn't last.

Uriel is the Archangel of intelligence, manifesting in the form of epiphanies and creativity.

Jophiel is associated with justice and wisdom. They would work with Uriel in delivering rulings based on the Sins of Humanity. They still do, though Uriel no longer helps.

Sandalphon is the Archangel of music and prayers, delivering the messages of Humanity to the Almighty.

Zadkiel was the Archangel of freedom and mercy. They died in the War between Lucifer's armies and Michael's. Heaven no longer has such mercy.

And finally, Camael. They were not considered a true Archangel until Lucifer's Fall. Being the weakest and youngest of the eight, they were never seen as an equal with the others. But after Lucifer Fell, the remaining seven welcomed him to try and fill the admittedly large whole in their lives. Camael is the Archangel of strength and courage. They took Lucifer's place at Michael's side.

All of the Archangels had their part to play, and, most of the time, they did it well.

Lesser Angels were made, and the youngest four trained and looked after them. Michael led the armies, Lucifer aiding Michael, Raphael healing the injured, and Gabriel delivering messages.

When God stopped speaking directly to the Archangels, though, the balance of Heaven was thrown off.

Metatron became God's voice, and spoke to Gabriel instead of the Archangel hearing Their voice themself.

This angered the Archangels. Why should a Lesser (at least in Gabriel and Sandalphon's eyes) Being hear Their voice and not the first race of angels, they asked.

Michael and the younger three remained silent on the matter.

Lucifer, Raphael, and Gabriel - and possibly Sandalphon, though they were never able one to think for themself -, on the other hand, got _mad_. They prayed and begged for God to return to them. When They didn't, Lucifer got angrier, and more enraged, until he Fell.

Lucifer's Fall was felt throughout the Universe. An Archangel Falling was not a small thing. Any Angel Falling, for that matter, was a big deal. But Lucifer, the second-born and favoured child?

The Archangels mourned their Fall and Zadkiel's death.

Heaven wailed.

Michael's teachings became stricter, Gabriel took up a Garrison of their own, Uriel and Jophiel fought often, and Raphael... Raphael snapped.

Gabriel and Michael would find Raphael on Earth, messing with the wildlife or fraternizing with the Demons Lucifer created.

Raphael Fell.

That was the last straw for the six Archangels.

Michael gave up on his Garrison, sending them out and into the other four's care.

Gabriel grew resentful. His previously warm aura was filled with a cold hatred.

Uriel injured Jophiel in a quarrel, and they never spoke again.

Camael was rarely seen. His anger invisible and sadness silent.

The five remaining Archangels changed Heaven into what it is now.

A hardened base filled with emotionless soldiers and heartless assassins.

They never saw Lucifer again. But they saw Raphael. And when they found him on Earth, once more fraternizing with the wildlife, Gabriel broke.

How could they choose Humanity and a Lesser Angel over them?

Gabriel's anger was never sated.

~

Exactly twenty-five angels stand in the room, all wing-span length apart in a perfect square.

Gabriel stands in front of them, pacing up the length of the room. His purple-glowing eyes scrutinizing each and every last one of them.

After a solid fifteen, nerve-wracking, minutes, he stops in the centre. His hands are clasped behind his back and he straightens himself, his chin up in that ever-present smug 'I'm-more-powerful-than-you' expression.

"Disappointing, as usual." His tone is harsh, and he side-glances Aziraphale. "Where do I even _begin_?" He loosens his body, walking up to the first angel in front of him. Their body stands rigid, chin up but eyes downcast.

He runs an index finger along their shoulder, lifting it up and frowning, "Is that _dirt_ I see?" He whispers, voice in a deep growl. They gulp and shake their head, "No, Sir."

"Wrong." A strong hand comes up and hits the angel in the shoulder blade, right under where their wings sprout. "And _wrong_." His fingers wrap around the long, hollow bone, pulling it down at an uncomfortable angle. "You should clean yourself more, Jabril." He mutters, letting go at last before waving a hand. "Dirt, _and_ bent feathers?" He asks, turning and staring at where his hand had ruffled their wing, "I expected more from you..."

The process repeats across the group. Gabriel pointing out minuscule details, punishing and humiliating them in front of their peers, and then blaming the damage on the victim.

The Archangel purposefully leaves Aziraphale for last. Finally approaching him with the eyes of a starved hawk.

"Aziraphale..." He hums, pacing around him, something akin to a vulture swarming its prey. "I thought we went over this..." He puts a hand, fingers splayed out, in the centre of the younger angel's back. He pushes on the bone until Aziraphale's posture straightens almost painfully.

"And your wings..." He runs a finger along the bone on the left wing, tsk-ing and giving him a pout filled with fake-sympathy. "You know what I think of messy feathers." He hums.

Gabriel's long fingers run through the white feathers, combing in between them, though not in a comforting gesture that some might mistake it as. But instead, as a judging reminder that Gabriel has had, does have, and always _will_ have, more power than Aziraphale.

An angel's (and a Fallen's, too) wings are a precious thing. Every pair of wings are different, each feather hand-crafted (well, as much as 'hand' could describe the essence the Almighty uses to create) to utter perfection.

Rarely do angels touch each other's wings, even rarer does a higher and lower level being even come close enough to have the option to. The non-consensual preening Gabriel so insists on performing on his charges could be compared, not _vaguely_, but _exactly_ to a human being groped.

Both because creatures like angels lack sex, and their wings are the closest to having any (at least, without the being putting in enough effort to have something, and that is only in their corporeal forms), and because wings are so sensitive and considered so sacred to any being lucky enough to have a pair.

Aziraphale's hands clench into fists and he looks down, biting his lip to hold back a string of curse words that could make even Lord Beelzebub herself blush.

"Oh, _please_," Gabriel mutters, moving a hand to grab him by the jaw, pulling his face up and to the side so Aziraphale could see him if he moved his eyes enough. "You know your place, and you know your responsibilities, Aziraphale." His words are harsh, but what's worse, is the volume of them. The other angels watch - though few actually _want to_ \- at Gabriel's Grace's order.

Their heads forced to see as Aziraphale's wings are harshly pulled on. Gabriel uses his fingers to tug at and rearrange the ruffled feathers. "You think you're special, don't you?" Gabriel asks, looking up at him and 'accidentally' pulling a covert feather from its root. "_Whoops_." He whispers, a grin tugging at his lips, "News flash, Aziraphale: You aren't. You're just as much of a measly weakling as every last one of these useless Fledglings." He waves at the group surrounding them. "They're _watching_, Aziraphale. They're _judging_. Judging _you_." He jabs a finger in between Aziraphale's shoulder blades, earning a shocked jolt from the younger.

"They hate you. _I_ hate you. We all hate you. _God_ hates you." He hisses out - _thud_.

The angels all turn towards the noise, and Gabriel's eyes widen, taking a step away from Aziraphale.

The figure takes a step closer. Their eyes glowing with Holy Wrath, wings flaring up protectively.

"Camael." Gabriel mutters, his eyes narrowing. "What are _you_ doing here?" He stalks forward to meet the younger Archangel near the door he had so loudly slammed open.

"I heard your blasphemy, Brother." He whispers, his head cocking to the side, eyes watching and judging the older.

"I would never." He counters, only to earn a loud scoff.

"Please, brother. I heard it with my own hearing. You are such a cruel leader." Camael's silver irises shine in the light of Heaven. His long wings radiate a warmth the fledglings surrounding Aziraphale too young to recognize.

The true warmth of an Archangel.

Aziraphale doesn't remember the last he felt it...

"I do what I must." Gabriel answers, obviously displeased at the interruption. "They are _nothing_."

"They are _everything_, Brother. They are the new generation of angels, the new-"

"We are _immortal_, Camael. They are just the lame 'replacements' in case one of the Lessers are stupid enough to get killed-"

A _shing_ cuts off Gabriel's words. A thin, lithe, silver blade appears in Camael's hands. The sword is easily held in his practiced palms. "You sound just like Lumiel." He whispers, "Before his Fall-"

"You do not _dare_ speak of Lucifer that way-"

"So you admit?" His eyes are filled with either wrath or- no, vengeance. Not completely Heavenly, Aziraphale will admit, but better than Gabriel. "You are being too harsh. As was Lumiel. That is why he Fell. You would Fall too, if Mother was still paying attention."

"And you accuse _me_ of blasphemy?" He shrieks, his own blade falling into his hands, a long dagger with jagged edges, the hilt woven with a bright purple, metal thread.

"We can fight here if we must, Brother. But it is not lies that I speak. The truth is not blasphemous."

Gabriel's wings flare out and his irises burn violet, "We have not seen you in millennia, Camael, and now you stand before me, daring for a fight you will inevitably lose, for you are the youngest, the _weakest_, **the Lesser of the Archangels! You were never meant to be one of us!**" His Grace engulfs Gabriel's corporeal body and fills his voice with Holy Power.

"**The weakest physically can be the strongest mentally, Brother**." Is Camael's only response.

The fledglings - featuring Aziraphale - all back up, huddling together against the furthest partially-existing wall with Aziraphale standing protectively in front of them. The last duel of Archangels ended in the Fall of too many Lessers. Who knows what this one might hold? His wings stay spread out, arms opened in a defiant stance.

Gabriel's grip on the blade tightens and a second, identical one appears in his opposite not-hand.

He lunges.


	5. Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter update because every other attempt (3, total) were either deleted in the few (30) minutes I spent at dinner because Windows decided that then, and only then, would it be acceptable to randomly pop an update on me. One that, in a matter of minutes, you can tell it whether or not you would be fine with it. I eat one damn salad and suddenly my work is gone because I'm too stupid to try and save it in a separate document.
> 
> Whatever. It's fine. This one did turn out better, though it's far shorter than any of the other two.  
I'll start on a new one right after this is posted, but I can't promise anything to be published soon as I'm traveling to the States for vacation, but I'll try my best.

~

Asmodeus is not a torturer.

He is the Demon of Lust. A Prince of Hell, a Fallen Angel.

He tempts, and tricks, and fools even the strongest of souls.

He doesn't specialise in Wrath, but that's not to say he isn't _good_ at it.

He's a demon, it's in the job description, really.

No, Asmodeus is no torturer, but he still knows how to break a soul.

_Silence_.

Of all of the things in Hell, all the methods, toys, and diabolical traps...

_Silence_ is what Asmodeus chooses to torture Crowley with.

_Silence_ is what breaks Crowley.

The Prince would walk, around and around the Lesser demon... Waiting. Watching. _Judging_.

And Crowley, being a demon, can, obviously, feel the emotions radiating off of the senior demon [1].

Asmodeus was counting on this. The side-glances and occasional sneer are not enough for him. Crowley needs to _feel_ the resentment flowing off of him. And, oh, Satan, he _can_.

But the relentless hatred is nothing, Hell, Crowley would be more unnerved if he _didn't_ feel it.

It's not even the endless pacing - Circles upon circles around the demon stuck either in the centre of the room or pushing himself against the wall while Asmodeus paces lines in front of him.

No, it's the complete, and utter _silence_.

Asmodeus hasn't spoken since telling Crowley, "You not to talk unless prompted". And, so far, there has been _zero_ prompting.

And, unlike most (Read: every) trips to Hell, there are no screams or _wails_ for help coming from any and all angles.

No, there isn't any laughter following every cry, nor is there the _pop_ping of lava bubbles, or the _crackling_ of fire, the _crunch_ of soot under metaphysical feet, nor is there any sounds of creaking floorboards or squishing, wet red dirt (that looks suspiciously like flesh).

_Nothing_.

It's almost as if Asmodeus managed to deafen him, though it shouldn't have been possible, considering he doesn't have the power of a King or President of Hell.

No, this can only be one thing, Crowley decides.

It's all a trick.

Asmodeus is in his mind. Breaking him from the inside, out.

And, Lucifer, _it__'s working_. 

* * *

[1] This is not to say that Crowley, nor any other variant or race or _power_ of demon can feel all creatures' emotions. Other demons are relatively easy to read, with most generally having three emotions (Anger, Boredom, and Worse Anger), and humans are even easier to sense, although it takes some skill to figure out what the temperatures, colours, scents, and, occasionally, _tastes_ all mean. But, even then, it's only the negative emotions. They don't know Happiness, Excitement (well, they know List... Which is the negative counterpart so, a bit.), Love or Peace. Which is probably why Angels are all but a mystery to them, and even the Fallen cannot comprehend their emotions or thoughts. Their aura itself is overpowering - though Crowley has grown accustomed to Aziraphale's - so any hope (Read: plot) to try and read any of the Celestial Entities is fruitless, at best. At worse, well, the ending to this hypothetical scenario can be interpreted as painful, loud, and most of all, messy, considering what (most) angels think of (most) demons.

[2] Dukes and Princes of Hell have plenty of power, don't think otherwise, but the higher powers have enough mojo to meld, harm, or otherwise maim the Demonic Essence of any demon - Lesser or Higher. Lucifer, for example, was able to break Crowley's Essence in half when the younger demon had first Fell. And that's not even including the minor cracks and breaks his metaphysical body had already endured during the Fall itself.


	6. The Second Great Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry this took so long to get out. I've had it done for over 2 weeks, but my desktop broke the day I planned on publishing it. I finally got my desktop back, so here is the long-awaited sixth chapter and, once again, I am truly sorry it wasn't out sooner!

~

He lunges.

Camael flies up to meet Gabriel in the middle of the room.

Sword and dagger clang against one another.

A mass of blinding light fills the room, painfully loud clashing sounds exploding out.

Crimson blood flies as the blades make contact with their beings.

They move forward and back, a battle mid-air between Brothers.

Neither show signs of letting up, but that was simply a front Camael is an at putting on.

A sharp swipe and Camael's thin sword goes through Gabriel's side, barely grazing the top of a tail wing [1].

Gabriel twists, flipping backwards into a more balanced stance.

Camael races forward, and their blades collide once more, Gabriel's right dagger pushing harshly against Camael's sword, his left side being held down by Camael's right.

"Do you wish to Fall, Brother?" Gabriel shouts, his True Voice high and shrill.

"Do you?" Is all the response he gets.

With a growl, the Messenger swings a harsh jab at the top of Camael's being. His kind-of-hand twists out with one fluid motion, the golden hilt of his dagger banging against the younger.

Camael doesn't make a noise, though he does falter, flying backwards a little too messily.

A burst of Grace from the older launches him against the not-really-there-but-also-very-there-wall.

Camael, using the kind-of-wall as a springboard, launching himself forward and onto Gabriel.

The two tumble down to the not-ground, only half a metre from the Fledglings.

Gabriel lets his Grace flare up angrily, a ball of fire the strength of a thousand suns burning at Camael's Essence.

The younger hisses but throws multiple harsh swipes with his sword.

Small wounds dot on Gabriel's being, only a few bleeding.

"Scared?" He whispers, grinning [2] up at his brother with mischevious violet eyes.

His wings expand to full length and, with one sharp beat, pushes Camael off of him.

"I do not want to harm you." They answer.

Gabriel rolls his many eyes, flipping his right blade around in a full circle, raising an arm-like length of Grace to point the tip at the younger.

"You were always a weak warrior."

"I am not weak, Brother." Camael's voice, much to Gabriel's annoyance, does not show any anger or annoyance, "But if I have the option not to, I would never hurt another of my Siblings."

Gabriel looks to the side, making a face [3] as he ponders his answer. Or, at least, tries to make it look like he's doing that.

With a sudden burst of Angelic Power, the older whips around, using his wings and leg-like-devices to kick Camael backwards.

He jumps up, gliding quickly to a stop only a few inches from Camael's Grace.

The left blade pierces the youngest Archangel's opposite wing before the right dagger comes down and plunges deep into the centre of his Essence.

This time, he lets out a loud cry, startling the Fledglings behind them.

Gabriel, in one swift motion, doubles back onto the ground and shifts his Grace back into his corporeal form.

His purple eyes burn with an unbridled rage that angels were created to inhabit.

"I could kick you out of Heaven right now, Camael." He states, his voice firm and loud despite his form now taking a humanoid-shape. "Attacking your superior is treason."

Camael, surprisingly [4], begins to shift forms.

His Grace morphs and twists into a less-than-human, though more solid than before, being.

His torso contorts painfully and, if what he was appearing as was a real being, unnaturally. Red blood spills from the wound in his abdomen.

Two arms shakily attempt to hold him up, keeping the gash from touching the half-solid ground. Two more arms, these ones longer, thinner, and lower than the other pair, grip the lithe sword below him - another reason to not collapse onto the floor.

Lying uselessly below him are his legs, shaped like a goat's but with the hooves of a horse. The hips attached are scaled, the texture carrying itself all the way up to his chest, where it then shifts to a pure white human-adjacent feeling skin.

With only one head, but three eyes glowing eyes, a thin humanoid nose, and the ears of what humans tend to associate with their perception of elves, Camael looks up at his brother. White hair, shimmering silver in the bright glow of Heaven's light, drapes down his shoulder and down to his abdomen. Specks of blood drip down it, but never staining the strands.

His bloodied thin lips quiver as he opens them, an attempt to talk in what could be the first corporeal form he ever assumed, "Your anger gets the best of you, Brother, dear."

Gabriel glowers, scowling as he approaches him, left dagger still held tightly in his fingers.

"Calm." Camael orders sharply, a wave of Grace washing over the older.

The power, as much as Gabriel tries to fight it, is too strong for him [5].

He relaxes considerably - and rather visibly, much to Camael's amusement.

"Help me up, will you?" He asks, groaning and shifting on the ground. His sword vanishes into a different realm, one of his lower arms ripping out the blade from his gut, the other covering the wound.

Gabriel reluctantly goes over, reaching down and pulling Camael up by the shoulders.

"Over 7000 years and now you show your face?" He mutters, a sign of annoyance still evident in his voice, though Camael's Grace soothes most of the anger.

Camael grunts, and uses a quick burst of energy to heal his abdomen. "I was busy."

"Busy?" He shrieks, in a voice that, upsettingly, reminds Aziraphale of how Crowley expressed shock at him giving away his flaming sword.

"Yes, busy, Brother. It means over-encumbered with tasks o-"

"I know what it means!" He exclaims, quickly as if he didn't say it fast enough Camael would continue to belittle him.

Camael manages a sly grin before turning his attention to the Fledglings.

"My Siblings," He begins, carefully trotting - quite literally - towards them. "You need not fear." He adds, a warm, flowing feeling filling the group from the creature in front of them.

In an instance, Aziraphale stands down, his wings slowly closing and his arms dropping. The younger Angels take small steps out from behind the older angel until Camael can see them all.

He smiles warmly, oddly humanoid teeth clashing with the rest of his... look.

He opens his mouth once more, to, most likely, apologize for Gabriel's rash actions, when he lets out a pained gasp.

Camael's eyes fill with a sudden, deep sadness.

The angels all cry out in fear, Aziraphale folding out his wings to block their eyes.

"Gabriel." Camael whispers, turning his head to look at his older brother.

Gabriel stands there, looking shocked. He looks from Camael's sword to his eyes.

Deep maroon drips down the tip of the thin blade, Camael's eyes filling with a similar colour.

Tears drip down his pale face before he collapses onto the ground.

"Gabriel." He says again, this time more insistent.

The older rushes to his side, despite his previous actions.

"I'm sorry-" He gasps out, looking from the hilt, buried in Camael's flexible spine up to his young sibling.

"I'm- I'm so sorry, Cam, I 'm- I-" He sputters out. With a collection of fear, guilt, regret, and utter panic filling both angel's eyes, Camael falls into Gabriel's arms.

The older pulls the blade out of him, dropping it as if it were burning as soon as it leaves his flesh.

"After 7000 years," Camael whispers, deep red tears trailing down from all three eyes, the middle one blinking away the pain as two tear ducts expel the liquid. "You still hold hatred for me?"

"I didn't- I- No, Cam, I didn't mean to- I didn't want-"

A sad smile makes its way onto the youngest's face, a thin hand touching Gabriel's cheek, "It is a God-Given Blade, my dear, Gabriel."

Gabriel shuts his eyes, his head tipping down as he reaches for the wound. A silent prayer leaves his lips before he looks up and screams.

Camael doesn't flinch. He leans against Gabriel's chest and murmurs, "Brothers, Sisters... I apologize."

In a split second, the door slams open and Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon, and one unrecognizable figure race in.

Michael collapses on her knees in front of Camael, blood rolling down her cheeks. "What did you do, Gabriel?" She cries, looking up at the Messenger before back down to the youngest.

"Come here, little one," Michael whispers, holding Camael as if he were still a young Fledgling.

Sandalphon pulls Gabriel away, his face suddenly filled with a silent annoyance, though not the full anger the older anticipated.

Uriel and the other reach Camael's side, their Graces burning brightly.

A warm glow from Michael's Essence searches for a solid edge to the tear, before finally latching on with a relieved sigh.

"Uriel, Jophiel, on the count of three..." She whispers the two understanding. "One..." Camael shuts his eyes, "Two..." he clenches four fists, "Three."

A sharp, burning pain explodes from the wound as the three channel their Graces towards the tear.

If his Grace could boil, and if he knew what that word meant, Camael would swear that that would accurately describe the aftershock of it all.

Jophiel lets go first, their Grace the weakest of the three.

Uriel slowly retracts her's, placing a worried hand on the back of Camael's head.

Michael finishes last, leaving a warm encasing of Grace around the scar as a sort of bandage.

"Breathe, little on," She whispers, pulling the youngest close. Camael collapses, unconscious in The Great Commander, Warrior of Heaven, God's First Creation, The Sword of God, The First Archangel, _Michael_'s arms, the oldest shooting dagge- blad- _glaring_ at Gabriel with the intensity of a thousand suns.

Silent tears leave Gabriel's purple eyes, though he would never admit it.

Sandalphon keeps his hands on Gabriel's biceps, holding his arms behind his back.

Jophiel stands, a look of a dangerous calm on their face. "Archangel Gabriel." They state, voice nearly indifferent [6], "You have committed crimes against Heaven and your fellow angels. As punishment-"

"Don't punish him." A voice startles them, and all six stare at Camael.

"I have another idea." Although the words can, rather often, sound evil, Camael's tone and rasping voice show their lack of ill intent.

Jophiel shifts, looking at Camael, then The Great Commander, Warrior of Heaven, God's First Creation, The Sword of God, The First Archangel, then at Gabriel, and back again.

The Great Commander, Warrior of Heaven, God's First Creation, The Sword of God, The First Archangel, runs a hand through Camael's hair, not letting go of the sibling she thought she lost, "I allow it." She says, and Jophiel [7] nods, turning to Sandalphon.

"Let him go."

He does, and Gabriel carefully treads towards Camael.

The youngest Archangel peers up at him and says, quietly, "Your garrison is being transferred to Michael's..." He gives him a gentle look, before adding, almost inaudibly, "as punishment, of course."

Gabriel doesn't answer.

He turns and looks hazily at Uriel and Jophiel, then sparing a glance at a rather terrified looking Aziraphale, before stumbling out of the room.

  
  


* * *

[1] Of course, this is on purpose. If he wanted or needed to, Camael could easily - some would argue even quicker than Michael herself - incapacitate and de-wing his older sibling. He would never do this, of course, he loves him too much. Gabriel is not aware of either of these facts and would, probably, even forget just who Camael and Michael are until he is lying half-dead on the battlefield.

[2] Both of these actions being, of course, a vague description of how the Archangel's voice and face-like-part twisted and changed.

[3] Once more, Gabriel does not simply contort his 'face' seeing as he has many and none look even human adjacent. Well, one, if you stand far enough away, squint, and picture Donald Trump quite vigorously.

[4] To Gabriel, mainly, since he is the only one old enough - in that sort-of-room, at least - to even recognize the younger Archangel. Gabriel, who, since knowing Camael, has never seen them outside of their natural state despite them being around long enough to get the gist of corporeal forms.

[5] That last time an angel used their emotional influences over Gabriel was Before. And even then, he was a mere Fledgling.

[6] Only the Archangels could hear the slight quiver in their voice.

[7] Who, for longer than Camael, has not shown themself in Heaven. It has been a long time since they have performed their job. The last time it had happened, they were forced to sentence Lumi- Lucifer to Fall.


	7. Meeting with a Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand, here's an extra chapter I made during that 2-week wait as a little bonus for all you amazingly patient readers! I hope you enjoy it and I apologize for the previous one coming out so late!

~

"My Lord." Asmodeus dips his head down, dropping to one knee in front of the trapped creature.

In the centre of the blessed cage stands a tall being.

Not a demon, nor an angel.

Pale white skin covered in boils and burns, tinting the usually pearlescent flesh red.

Dark, nearly black blood drips from their face - popped blisters, cists, and the overall scratching of the area causing long, shallow gashes to decorate their forehead and temples.

Bloodshot eyes glow an angry red, small, black pupils a sharp contrast.

Long, ragged, black hair draping down from their bleeding scalp to their hips.

Three pairs of large wings spread out on either side of the figure - two metres for the flying set, one, for the head and tail wings.

All six wings remain featherless - bones still, somehow, held together.

Any flesh remaining on the shoulder blades is charred black or boiling off, any lingering feathers aflame.

Thin, cracked lip curve up in a smile as the being turns around.

"Prince Asmodeus." They hum out, voice smooth and honey-like.

"Emporer." The Prince in question deepens his bow, practically collapsing onto the ground in front of the Ruler of Hell.

"Rise, my Son," Lucifer says, almost sounding bored. They roll their head back and gaze down at the shorter [1] being.

"Yes, my Lord." Asmodeus stands and looks up at Lucifer.

The Fallen Angel [2] watches him with growing interest. Lucifer, always having such a large curiosity, smirks before speaking again.

"Tell me, Asmodeus," The Prince of Lust shifts at the use of his name [3], "Why have you chosen to visit me in my..." They wave a hand around the small cage, "Humble abode?"

Asmodeus takes an unnecessary breath, "My Lord," He begins, taking an apprehensive step back when Lucifer takes a confident one forward, "It has been nearly a year since we have captured and begun torture on the Lesser demon, Crawly."

"And?" Lucifer asks, sounding slightly disappointed. They lean against the cage, head pressing against the bars and hand hanging onto another set of crisscrossed beams, fingers curling around it as if the metal wasn't Blessed, by Michael her- then himself- before even being made into its shape.

"I was wondering... My Lord... What do you want me to do next?"

Lucifer rolls their eyes, head lolling backwards so they are looking down at him in a rather intimidating, and quite bored, expression.

"Demons. No creativity these days." They state, letting go of the wall - with multiple, rather present, burns on their face and hands - and turning to pace around the cage. "I thought I taught you lot better."

Asmodeus flushes, sputtering out failed attempts to gather himself up and save the moment.

"Please, Asmodeus, stop. I'm getting second-hand embarrassment..." They mutter, a hand going and running down their maimed face.

After a few moments, they look up at him, a new emotion in their glowing eyes, "Alright... Alright..." They murmur, a grin slowly making its way onto their face, "Alright! I have it."

They turn to meet Asmodeus's embarrassed gaze, "As', I know just what you should do."

"You do?" They ask in utter disbelief. Usually, after a moment like that [4], things do _not_ go this smoothly.

"Yes." They kneel down so the two are, roughly, face level. "Rip. His. Heart. Out."

Lucifer stands up abruptly and twirls around, heading to the other side of the cage and staring out.

Asmodeus stares at them for a minute.

The Lust Prince slowly realises their words and an idea forms in his brain. But, there's one problem, he decides. "My Lord, with all due respect... Demons can't love."

Lucifer gives him a sly grin, looking at him without moving from their place at the back of the cage, "The demon you, and Alastair, and Beelzebub became, Crawly did not."

Asmodeus's jaw drops and he splutters, "You- he- what?!"

Lucifer doesn't respond to that - in their defence, what would anyone say to that sort of incoherent response?

"You didn't torture him into - into Damnation? And why exactly not?" Asmodeus exclaims.

"Watch your tone." Lucifer hums, and Asmodeus catches himself, quickly adding a 'My Lord' to the end.

"Because..." The Emporer of Hell turns and their face is inscrutable. "Humans were being born and I needed someone up there making trouble. I choose them."

"There were at least a hundred of us- if not a thousand- already processed by then!"

"I know. But I had a plan. And it worked, now, didn't it?"

Asmodeus blinks, rather confused by now. "I do not understand, my Lord."

"I had a demon," Lucifer spells out slowly, giggling in between words, "Fall in love," He draws a set of wings in the air, "with an angel!" They collapse backwards, hands on their gut as their cackle with glee.

"Wait-" Asmodeus takes a shaky step backwards, "You're telling me-"

"Crawly is in love with the angel of the Eastern Gate!" Lucifer manages to exclaim through a fit of giggles, "My best work yet. And I didn't have to do anything- except a little mind work!"

"Mind work?" Asmodeus doesn't get an answer, because Lucifer just waves a hand at him.

"I'm leaving the rest to you Princes!" They shout, breathing heavy and wiping a tear for their eye, "Make me proud!"

Asmodeus blinks, but he knows a cue to leave from the Dark Lord almost as much as Beelzebub does, and makes a beeline for the exit.

With this new information, the Prince of Lust realises, he can break Crawly from the inside out.

* * *

[1] Somehow shorter, one should know, considering Asmodeus, in his most common humanoid form is at least 6 feet, usually more.

[2] Lucifer is the only creature of their kind. They never became a demon, considering most demons became ranked and all that - more on that later -, but they still Fell, nonetheless. Most consider them simply a Fallen Angel and forget about other Fallen, including Beelzebub and Asmodeus, mind you, while others call them the Devil. This is half true, because they are a Devil, but not _the_. That would state that there are no others, but really, all of the Unholy Hosts of Hell are Devils. Lucifer is simply the highest ranking.

[3] Asmodeus, much like the rest of the higher ranking - Prince, King, President, etc - Hosts are not used to being addressed by simply their Satan-given name.

[4] That being a moment when one disappoints, annoys, angers, or, in any way, shape, or form, _displeases_ the Lord of Hell.


End file.
